Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Memories of Rockweld

Ah,
Rockweld. I can still see his furrowed brow, poring over ancient Sumerian texts
in the study we shared for all those years. Come away, let's relax for an
evening, I would say, but he would not budge from those parchments. He was
determined to find proof that the Sumerians had a widespread potato crisp
industry.

"I know it, and I must have the proof!" he would cry, his hair
standing on end and his ears rotating slowly. "It is here somewhere!"
I humoured him, but was amazed when he proved his theory and published his
monograph. It was utterly ignored by the world, but Rockweld felt vindicated,
and was content for a while. He even took up pipe smoking, until instructed not
to by a plumber.

Rockweld was, in many ways, my alter ego, my mirror image, and certainly the
best friend I could ever have. Today I feel quite wistful, recalling those long
days spent in fevered debate and discussion, testing our wits and logic against
the keen razor of the other's intellect. How fondly I remember those lengthy,
jocular sparring matches, as we argued vehemently back and forth over which was
"the weird one" in Shakespear's Sister. Happy days indeed, as we
lived off our modest stipends, and imparted wisdom to our students and
ourselves.

I remember when his first novel was published, Rockweld came bustling into our
rooms, delighted and waving the first copy above his head in triumph. We drank
long into the night in celebration, and he was quite red-faced later when I
informed him that in his intoxicated state, he had attempted to write a thesis
on the prevalence of fennel in aviary kiosk menus. How we laughed, as I showed
him the ornamental Japanese bread bin he had worn on his head, while standing
by the fireplace and demonstrating a new dance he had just invented called
"The Menorah Bop"

Unfortunately, Rockweld's joy had quickly turned to dust as his book was an
unmitigated failure. He blamed the reviews, and there is no doubt that certain
critics had harmed the commercial prospects of the work when they pointed out
that the plot was predicated entirely on the (supposedly) fanciful notion that
the lead character was a zebra who had managed to convincingly disguise himself
as a wealthy stockbroker with a stapler and some felt. If one did not give
credence to this idea, claimed the nitpickers, then the book, as a narrative,
made no sense at all. After sales plummeted from their already subterranean
levels, Rockweld, fixated upon literary respect, embarked on a much-publicised
experiment to prove that a zebra could, in fact, achieve this task. He failed
in this attempt, too, becoming bitter and retreating to our study to drink
heavily and occasionally snort derisively at my interior decorating skills.

Still, there is no doubt Rockweld had a dizzying intellect, and I will forever
think of him as the most admirable academic, indeed the most admirable man, of
our times. It was only later in life that his wits were dulled to a certain
extent, and where once he would dazzle parties with his rapier wit and best any
challenger at chess, checkers, or whist, he now mainly went to the cinema and
threw jaffas at Chinese people.

At least, in this phase, he was happy, and I think his seventy-third birthday,
around this time, may have been the most joyous of his life, especially
considering his early childhood, when every year his parents would pretend to
be wheeling in an enormous cake, only to pull off the cover to reveal an
assortment of huge, venomous spiders, which they would then exhort young
Rockweld to "round up and pacify", or he would get no presents. Once
he had performed this task, they would chuckle knowingly and give him an Al
Jolson commemorative keyring, engraved with the wrong initials. Rockweld later
discovered that they were, in fact, laudanum-addicted psychotherapists who had
stolen him in infancy to perform mind-experiments on, but the hurt never fully
healed, and all his life he looked for these people's approval.

I do remember that awful day, the beginning of the end. Rockweld had been
unpredictable in his moods of late, and on this day, the final straw appeared
to be placed on the camel.

We were calmly sitting, reading and enjoying the view of the black smoke from
the smelting plant across the road, when I passed an innocent remark to the
effect that I considered West Side Story to be too heavily stylised for my
tastes.

Rockweld instantly flew into a terrible rage, hurling his brandy glass out the
window, striking me sharply with the corkscrew, and accusing me of being a
crypto-fascist and in league with Hammerskjold. I tried to placate him with
promises of compensation and trips to the zoo, but he kept up his abuse,
screaming that I was trying to trick him into voluntary organ donation, and
then crawling under the rug, biting his fingers and crying out "I'm a
linen press, you mustn't look at me!"

Sadly, I had to call a doctor, who sedated Rockweld and took him for the last
time from his beloved study. He didn't last long after that, of course, dying
peacefully in his sleep after confiding to me that he had never really loved
his wife, and in general preferred Italian cheese. It was a sad end for a great
man, but I shall always remember him with fondness, respect, and...yes, I
should say, love.